


green

by hezenvengeance



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Genderless Guardian, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hezenvengeance/pseuds/hezenvengeance
Summary: “Y’know, when you said dinner date, I was honestly expecting dumpster diving.”
Relationships: The Drifter/Guardian (Destiny)
Kudos: 40





	green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie/gifts).



The Tower wears many faces. A seedy hole, a welcoming home, safe haven, pit stop. Drifter sees them all; the outsider looking in, a blip of dull grey-green in a sea of vibrant colour. It’s a small wonder he quickly figured out the ‘best’ spots (the popular ones, with queues round the block) and the _best_ spots, just busy enough for anonymity, with whole and hearty food that doesn’t cost the earth and drink that doesn’t taste as cheap as the price tag. What makes it even better, however, is the look of sheer shock he gets from his companion as they slip, shoulder to shoulder, into the corner booth of his new favourite haunt.

“Y’know, when you said dinner date, I was honestly expecting dumpster diving.” The hunter flicks their hood back, eyeing the low lights and dated furnishings. The hum of quiet conversation blends with the sizzle of fryers and calls of the cooks, the smell of meat and spices heavy in the air, as Drifter’s face splits into an easy grin.

“Oh come on, partner!” Drifter spreads his arms wide - and only cringes a little when his knuckle smacks the wall - and settles into the worn cushions. “Drifter’s got a little class,” he leans back in, close to their face, and flashes a familiar jade coin, “For a little cash.”

“Always something,” comes the reply, sullen and a little put out, and Drifter’s smile loses a little of its edge at the tone shift. They’re still testing the bounds of ‘this’ - whatever it is, stuck somewhere between partnership and relationship, tenuous and new and built off their particular idiosyncrasies lining up again and again - and Drifter’s still working out how to navigate these brave new waters. Not that he’d ever admit it. He laughs instead, giving a little shrug.

“Aw c’mon, hotshot! Ain’t nothin’ in life free, after all.” _‘Like you,’_ he doesn’t say; knowing the affections of the taciturn hunter sat at his side must be bought is perhaps the only constant he can count on. It’s better this way, he thinks, promptly quashing the seed of yearning beginning to take shape in his breast. He’s lived too long, seen and lost enough to know that being _involved_ is a no-no. People just don’t survive at his side, and hell knows he’s counting on this kid for more than just the fun. 

But fun they’ll have in the meantime, Drifter thinks, as the server brings the first of many drinks to the table. God knows he doesn’t deserve the smile they wear at the sight of the little umbrella in their drink, the laughter at his shitty jokes about Hive holidays, the rapt attention as he hatches another harebrained plan for them both to gain a lot of glimmer. But God also knows he’ll take them anyway. 

Selfish survival runs in his veins like blood, after all. 

* * *

They wander out hours later, a swagger to the hunter’s step and a stumble to Drifter’s, and he lets himself be pulled by the hand through the maze of alleyways that make up the Tower markets, up stairs and through alcoves, up and up until they hit a rooftop, the sounds and people suddenly fall away and they are blessedly, silently alone. The breeze is cool on his flushed face, the first whisperings of a cold autumn hanging in the air, in the brown leaf that crunches under his boot as he follows the hunter to the railing. The city spreads out below, a sea of light and colour, a hundred thousand people all living their lives like they’re not sat at the edge of an apocalypse. Drifter envies them. 

“You’re thinking hard,” the hunter comments softly, gives his hand what he can only assume is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. What’s perhaps even more confusing is that it does, in fact, make him feel a little better, chases away a measure of the shadow lingering in his chest. 

He scoffs, but it’s lacking his usual indifference. The alcohol swimming in his system makes it harder to feign disinterest - harder to feign anything, really - and Drifter has a sneaking suspicion his partner has noticed, if the small smile they wear is anything to by. But a smile it is; not a smirk, not a taunting grin. Just something slight and soft. There’s a warmth curling in Drifter’s chest at the sight, much as he tries to drown it out. 

Isn’t he just the most sorry damn soul in the city tonight? 

It’s foolish of him, he thinks, reaching for them. He’ll live to regret it, he knows, as his arms circle their back. He’s screwed them both, he realises, as their arms come up to hold him too. 

They’ve crossed a line tonight, one that Drifter’s not sure they can return from. He’s not even sure that he wants to. 

How selfish of him, indeed.


End file.
